Combat Swimmer

by Robert A. Gormly

  We swam along the deck, careful not to look around too much. We didn’t want the water flow from the moving submarine to rip off our face masks. The submarine was highlighted in an eerie blue-green glow as the sea’s microscopic organisms contacted the hull and signaled their existence with phosphorescence. I could see about twenty feet along the submarine deck as we held the guideline and swam upward toward the sail.

  As the cigarette deck came into view, I saw that my men had retrieved and distributed all our equipment from the external storage areas. They appeared ready to go. Tom and I slipped over the railing and settled in next to the men.

  After checking with my assistant platoon commander, Lieutenant Junior Grade John Hennigan, I swam to the small, air-filled “Bubble” attached to the sail, stuck my head in, and pulled out my mouthpiece. “We’re ready to launch,” I told the sub CO through the loudspeaker.

  “Roger,” he replied. “We’ll be at the drop-off point in five minutes.”

  I signaled to John and waited for the CO’s signal to go. I could see John’s baby face peering at me through his face mask . . . we kidded him about his young looks, but he was tough as nails. I could see he’d done his usual good job getting things organized outside the submarine.

  “Thirty seconds to launch” came through the speaker in the Bubble. “That was a quick five minutes,” I thought.

  The men spat out the mouthpiece from the air regulators attached to the manifold on the cigarette deck and went back on their Mark 6 rig. They were hovering at the top of the railing around the cigarette deck, holding on to the “Lizard Line,” the long rope that keeps SEALs together during submerged operations.

  At precisely 0400, the submarine CO said over the speaker, “Course to Point Alpha same as planned—go!”

  “Roger. See you in about five hours.”

  “We’ll keep the coffee hot,” Dave said, giving us his personal send-off.

  I gave the hand signal to push off. The lead pair swam into the boat’s flow stream and set a course toward the beach, while I positioned myself next to Tom on the Lizard Line and started kicking to get clear of the submarine. Looking back along the line, I saw the latter half of my team falling into formation as the sub slowly disappeared into the murk.

  My best navigators were the lead pair, and I knew they would guide us to the target beach. We swam in double file, each pair holding a loop spliced into the Lizard Line. Tom, swimming at my side, appeared to hang suspended as we moved effortlessly through the water, and in front of me the fins of the swimmers gave off a bioluminescent glow.

  The trip to Point Alpha was going to take about an hour and a half. On long swims, like this one, it was hard for me to keep from going into a trance. Swimming always relaxed me, and the water was wonderfully warm. The slight current created by my swimming cooled me as the wet suit got more comfortable.

  We were on our way to an enemy beach on a small island in the Caribbean, where we would prepare the way for an amphibious landing by a large naval force. We had to reconnoiter the beach without being seen, which meant we had to stay underwater. A submerged swimmer reconnaissance is the most complicated operation I ever ran as a SEAL officer, and it took more than three hours to conduct the mission briefing. Once we left the submarine, we weren’t going to be able to talk things over: all communication would be in sign language. Every man had to know not only his own assignment but everyone else’s so he could take over any role if we had casualties.

  Today’s mission was straightforward. We had to give the amphibious force commander the location of every man-made and natural obstacle that might impale a landing craft. We had to locate and mark mines as well. The commander also needed to know whether the beach sand could support tanks, bulldozers, and other heavy equipment in the landing force. And of course, we had to do it all without the enemy knowing we’d been there.

  To accomplish our mission we had to leave the submarine about two miles off the beach. We’d swim submerged all the way. Three hundred yards off the beach, we’d establish a grid reference, “Point Alpha.” In designated swim pairs, we’d proceed along assigned lanes within the grid system, recording the water depth and any natural or man-made obstacles we encountered. After assembling back at Point Alpha, we’d swim back to sea, to a submarine rendezvous point. All of this had to be done underwater, much of it at night. Each man would spend about seven hours submerged—if all went well. We were trained as well as any UDT Platoon could have been, but it would still be a tough mission. None of us wanted to face our commanding officer, Dave Schaible, if we blew it.

  I felt the line slow and looked at my watch. It was 0530 and we had arrived at Point Alpha. It was still dark. Tom and I swam to the front of the line, where one of the men was already screwing the first of his reference augers into the sandy bottom, twenty-five feet beneath the surface. It looked like the right place. To make sure, I drifted slowly toward the surface, with Tom below me holding on to my weight belt. When my depth gauge read five feet I signaled Tom, and he remained at that depth keeping a close eye on me. I oriented myself to a compass heading that would have me facing the beach, then gently rose until my face mask broke the surface. I quickly scanned the beach and saw no enemy activity. Maybe they were all still asleep.

  I lined up my compass board in the predawn light with a hill about 300 yards to my right front and checked the bearing, then quickly turned left to see the jagged outcrop of rocks that marked the left flank of our target beach. I took another bearing and headed down. My face had been above the surface about thirty seconds—not bad. It would have been almost impossible for anyone to see me amid the light chop of the water. We were close enough to where we needed to be. When we got back to Sea Lion, I would adjust the position of Point Alpha and record the data from the new reference point.

  We descended to the first auger stake anchoring our survey line, and I gave the signal to begin the reconnaissance. Two of the men snapped their swimmer reel into the auger stake and began a course parallel to the beach, laying out their 500-yard base line. The swimmer reel, a deep-sea fishing reel containing a light nylon line, was used to log distances underwater. Every fifty yards of line was marked by lead shot, so we’d swim a designated number of fifty-yard intervals to get to the right location.

  In turn, each swim pair left Point Alpha and swam down the base line until they reached their designated spot. The swimmers assigned to the lane closest to Point Alpha stopped, tied a butterfly knot in the base line, and attached the end of the line from their swimmer reel to the knot. Then they headed for the beach on a course perpendicular to the line.

  In the first light of dawn, I watched as each pair moved past to their assigned positions. The lighter it got, the better for us to see—and the easier for the enemy to see us. All the men knew the risks and knew they had to be careful but thorough. There was no margin for error. The information we were gathering was critical, but it was also critical that we not be discovered. Not only were our asses on the line but the entire operation hung in the balance.

  Tom and I hooked into the first auger stake and started making our way to the beach. We swam a sinuous course, taking depth readings every twenty-five yards and looking for obstacles. With that technique we could cover about twenty-five yards off our base line, or a lane about fifty yards wide.

  Just as we passed the hundred-yard point, Tom grabbed my arm and pointed. To our left front was a large man-made, concrete tetrahedron with a five-foot length of railroad tie sticking out of the top. We took fast measurements, writing them on the plastic board on top of our reel. Water depth eight feet. Obstacle designed to impale a landing craft. No mine attached.

  At a four-foot depth I saw two steel tetrahedrons and noted their position. We couldn’t get any closer to the beach for fear of being seen. Tom reached down and drove a coring tube into the sand, taking a sample to determine if the beach would support heavy equipment. As he pulled the tube out and capped it we turned and headed back out to sea, reeling i
n our line. On the way out, we found and recorded two more man-made obstacles and a large coral head that would have to go before landing craft could be brought in.

  On our return, Tom tied our reel to the auger stake to let people know we had finished our reconnaissance. Then we started swimming down the base line to check on the rest of the troops. The next pair was just finishing as we passed them. As we swam, I noted that each point on the base line had another line attached, which meant so far all was well.

  One of the most difficult aspects of this operation was not knowing how my men were doing. I had the utmost respect for their abilities, and even the weakest swimmer of the bunch was above average. But our diving rigs were somewhat temperamental.

  Our Mark 6 semi-closed-circuit, mixed-gas diving rigs could be set to mix gases in different quantities depending on the depth of the dive. On this mission we were using an oxygen/nitrogen mix designed to give us maximum time at the depths we would be swimming—thirty feet to ten feet below the surface. We were using the gear mainly because it gave us the long underwater endurance we needed. As an added benefit, the Mark 6 emitted significantly fewer telltale bubbles than regular civilian scuba.

  However, the rigs were old and required careful predive assembly to function properly. For example, if either of the thin rubber non-return valves in the mouthpiece failed to seal, the diver would experience a buildup of carbon dioxide in his system. That, in the worst case, could lead to an oxygen-toxicity seizure and convulsions. By a phenomenon still not completely understood, life-giving oxygen becomes toxic when used to dive deeper than about twenty-five feet. For that reason the Navy allowed us to dive no deeper than twenty-five feet for no longer than seventy-five minutes on pure oxygen. (Since that time we’ve learned a few lessons from our European friends, and the Navy’s oxygen diving rules are much less restrictive.)

  I had personally checked that each man had gotten a positive on the dip testing of his rig for bubbles, which would tell of unsuspected leaks. Besides the non-return valve, the CO2 scrubber had to be properly sealed, or seawater would soak the barilyme (the scrubbing chemical), rendering it useless. Hose connections had to be tight as well. If bubbles appeared anywhere but the pop-off valve plus a few out of the mouthpiece, you had a problem that had to be fixed. Each diver was responsible for his own rig, but dive buddies helped each other.

  My platoon chief and diving supervisor, Chief Petty Officer James “Deacon” Criscoe, kept a close watch on all of us. Deacon, who’d been in UDT for over twelve years and was almost as crusty as Dave Schaible, was the perfect platoon chief petty officer. He always supported me but wouldn’t let me get into too much trouble. I trusted his judgment completely. Though his role was to make sure we set up each rig correctly, he could have easily taken my place. He was like a hawk, circling the group as we prepared to go. The rigs had to be perfect to begin with, because during the swim, as a diver twisted and turned doing his job, any loose connection could allow seepage. Deacon paid particular attention to each man’s oxygen-scrubber canisters, which were made of a fiberglass that was susceptible to warping. If the cover (or the top part of the canister where it mated with the cover) warped, there would be a microscopic break in the seal between the cover and the canister. A small warp wouldn’t be noticeable in the predive testing, but would cause problems later because small pressure differentials that occurred during the dive tended to flex the rig’s parts and connections.

  At the end of my predive briefing I’d told the men that in an emergency they were to surface as a pair and swim to sea. We’d try to pick them up after the rest of us made it back to the submarine, but we probably couldn’t get them until after dark. It was all we could do.

  Tom and I reached the end of the base line as the last pair was finishing. They gave me a thumbs-up and we headed back to Point Alpha. We passed pair after pair on our way back—no rigs had failed. I was beginning to feel really good, when suddenly I inhaled a mouthful of water—and tasted barilyme.

  Had my rig flooded out? Impossible, I thought. I signaled Tom that I had a problem. He gestured toward the surface with a questioning look in his eye. I shook my head no, and signed for him to check my rig. He gave me the once-over and a thumbs-up. That meant he couldn’t see any bubbles escaping from my scrubber canister, so if I had a leak it probably wasn’t too bad. I swallowed the water and barilyme. We would continue back to Point Alpha to rendezvous.

  As we swam I analyzed the situation. I was getting a little water on each inhalation, so there was water in my right breathing hose. It could have a slight leak, which wouldn’t be a real big deal, just uncomfortable. I could deal with that. I decided to continue the mission and see what happened. Tom, as he’d been trained, began paying more attention to me to make sure I wasn’t exhibiting any of the early signs of CO2 buildup, such as erratic behavior or labored breathing.

  As we approached the group at Point Alpha, I saw Deacon counting heads. I checked my watch: 0715. We had been gone from the submarine for three hours, fifteen minutes. I wanted to be at the rendezvous point with the sub by 0830.

  After we pushed off, my situation got worse. I started sucking more and more water-barilyme mix. “Screw it! If it gets to the point where I can’t get any gas, I’ll surface,” I said to myself. Incredibly, no one had had to abort yet. I thought that maybe some of the other guys were experiencing the same thing I was, and I wasn’t about to quit on them.

  I began experimenting as we swam seaward. By swimming with my head up slightly, I could diminish the problem. Gas at the top of my right breathing bag was apparently keeping the water down. I started getting more gas with each breath. I was going to make it! There was no way I was going to pull Tom to the surface with me and jeopardize the mission. The hell with my briefing!

  I slowed the group down on the way out because I couldn’t swim horizontally. They knew the situation. Tom watched me closely as we made our way to the rendezvous point. With hand signals, I’d briefed John Hennigan on my situation. I wanted him ready to take charge if things got worse.

  We swam on. Out of habit, I tilted forward after about every six to eight kicks of my fins and sucked more of the caustic mixture. Then I got back to a more vertical attitude and breathed good gas. I wasn’t feeling any symptoms of a carbon dioxide buildup, but it was only a matter of time.

  A lot of things were going through my mind. We’d just completed a good reconnaissance, but if we didn’t get back aboard the Sea Lion as planned, none of what we’d accomplished would matter. I knew Dave considered us his best submerged-reconnaissance group, and I wasn’t about to prove him wrong. The farther we were from the island, the better off we were. Even if something went wrong with the rendezvous, I knew we could surface two or three miles out and wait for our alternate rendezvous time, just after dark. Then the submarine could just surface and pick us up.

  Finally, I felt the combined motion of the Lizard Line stop. John swam back and signaled me that we were about where we should be for the pickup. We set up in a line and waited for our submarine.

  We had been in the water over five hours, submerged the entire time. The sand bottom was visible below as we intermittently kicked our fins to hold depth.

  I signaled Tom that I was going to do a “bounce” dive to make sure that we had at least sixty feet of water beneath us. If not, the submarine wouldn’t be able to pick us up, because there wouldn’t be enough water under its keel for it to maneuver safely. I was responsible for getting us back on board, and I’d planned to do the bounce dive as part of my routine duty on the mission. I guess my brain forgot about my rig’s situation—I couldn’t have explained my actions then, and I still can’t now.

  As I flipped to a head-down position, I was rudely reminded of why I had been carefully swimming almost vertically for the last hour or so. My first inhalation was greeted with the acrid taste of caustic barilyme and seawater. I quickly flipped back, shut the mouthpiece flow valve, took the mouthpiece out, and spat out the barilyme. Re
versing the procedure, I inhaled tentatively, relieved to feel the cool breathing mixture back in my mouth.

  With my feet down, the salty barilyme soup sloshed to the bottoms of my breathing bags, allowing the gas at the top of my right breathing bag to flow easily. I started down again, this time descending carefully erect, using my arms to push deeper. Tom was right beside me, gesturing toward the surface. I kept on descending. As long as I remained upright, I was fine. I had so much confidence in my ability in the water I knew I could detect the symptoms of CO2 buildup before it got bad. And I had confidence in my men. If the worst happened, they would pull me up before I drowned.

  By the time I arrived at forty feet, about halfway between the surface and the bottom, I could see that we were okay. The sub would have about eighty feet of water depth to maneuver. As I slowly ascended toward the line of frogmen, I signaled the two swimmer pairs with Calypso Sticks. These short lengths of iron pipe were banged together so the submarine’s sonar could find us. To the naked ear they sounded too muted to be of any use—merely a faint clicking noise. But to the submarine’s sonar operators they sounded like thunderclaps. The submarine would have no problem finding us.

  Suddenly Tom jerked my arm, and right ahead of us I saw the bow of Sea Lion emerge out of the haze. I’d been dozing; CO2 was building in my system. The bounce dive probably hadn’t helped. I looked at my watch—0910. I watched the submarine move slowly past us and felt the welcome pull on the Lizard Line. We had snagged the periscope. The line swung together behind the sail, and we made our way to the cigarette deck.

  The swim pair who had locked out first, some seven hours ago, went directly to the trunk and disappeared. The second pair hovered just outside, awaiting their turn. Tom signaled that I ought to go right in the boat on the next cycle. I signaled no. First out, first in.

  The rest of us went “off bag” and on boat air, using the manifold on the deck. For the first time in over two hours I was breathing normally. Deacon swam over to check on me. He looked me square in the eye. I felt great—a slight headache, but that was normal with a CO2 buildup. I gave him the thumbs-up.